Being John
by Maid Malcolm
Summary: Sometimes, Jake just wants to hide from the past. (post-war.)


My name is Jake. Most of the time.

I don't remember actually deciding to do it, but I guess it was inevitable. When your face is famous the world over for something you want desperately to forget, something that encompasses a large portion of your life and changed it forever, it's natural to want to escape. There was no way to turn back the clock, no way to leave the scars behind; the war had become my life,even after our victory, even after the Animorphs drifted apart. I'd just moved from active combat to training. I still woke up in the middle of the night sometimes, convinced I'd heard a bird tapping on my window, and went into combat mode. I still kept alert for threats, for orders, for any indication that I'd need to head back into battle.

I couldn't erase the war. But I could shield myself from the stares.

The DNA donor I picked was my age and height, and fairly similar to me in appearance. He had no special connection to the war, and only a minimal connection to me. When I was in morph, I called myself John. John had a dog. He was a rescue dog, and he looked a lot like Homer, who died shortly after the war. I called him Scrap, because he had one shredded ear. I sort of fell into the habit of being John on weekends, walking Scrap and going to bookstores and just generally pretending to have a real life. Sometimes, I could almost convince myself that I wasn't scrutinising strangers to see if they were enemy agents watching me. I could almost believe that avoiding questions about my past when I was John was just to avoid blowing my cover, instead of a long-ingrained survival reflex.

I guess it was inevitable for John to build a life of his own. I went to the same cafe every weekend, and the woman there began to recognise me. A man who was always mowing his lawn when I passed on my route to the dog park began to wave and flash me a smile of recognition. In the dog park, one of those stupid little rat-dogs struck up a friendship with Scrap.

And by 'friendship', I mean they delighted in pulling their leashes away and chasing each other around, bowling over anybody else in the park in the process and completely ignoring any commands to stop.

"Mite! Mite, stop that!" A young woman yelled futilely at the rat-dog the first time they did it. She came jogging up to me, mop of brown curls bouncing about her round cheeks, breathing hard and red-faced from exhaustion. "Hey! Mite!"

"You named your dog 'Mite'?" I asked, quirking an eyebrow at her. She just smiled with her deep hazel eyes and shrugged in response. The moment didn't last long, though; at that point, Scrap bounded straight into a poodle in his quest to stay ahead of Mite. I whistled at him, only to be ignored. "Scrap! Here, boy!"

"At least 'Mite' is more original than 'Scrap'," the woman gasped. "Although he's not always this unmanageable. Yours?"

"He's a rescue dog," I shrugged, as if that explained everything. Apparently it did; the woman's eyes darkened and she gave an understanding nod.

"Good on you."

"We understand each other."

"I can get that." A look flittered across the woman's face like a passing shadow, a look I knew only too well. The look of somebody pushing dark memories away. "I'm Tamara, by the way."

"John." I gave her a smile and offered my hand. "Pleased to meet you, Tamara. Not so pleased with the dogs, but…"

She laughed. It wasn't the sort of light, tinkling laugh that lifts the hearts of all who hear it; it was rough and unpractised, and its existence seemed to surprise Tamara. "You come here often?"

"Every weekend."

"Then I'm sure our dogs will have ample opportunity to displease us further in the future."

They did.

The third time that Scrap and Mite made a mess of the park, Tamara and I looked for a solution that wouldn't involve ruining everybody else's day. And that's how I got talked into hiking.

Hiking has never been my thing. I mean, as a wolf, sure. Long-distance travel as a wolf is amazing. And most birds can cover a good hiking distance no trouble. But a slow, clumsy human trampling through the woods… it had always seemed a little pointless to me.

But then, I'd never gone hiking with Tamara.

We met at the edge of the National forest, the same one I'd spent most of my childhood in. The place we met, though, was a good distance from any part I'd travelled extensively. I'd made sure of that. No reason to ruin a good outing with traumatic memories. The forest was also thick enough to provide ample cover for me to demorph every couple of hours.

We let the dogs out as soon as we arrived, and they tore off through the trees. We knew they wouldn't run too far.

"You bring food and water?" Tamara asked as she shouldered her pack, as if I was some kind of idiot who might have forgotten.

"Uhm… no. I might have forgotten."

She rolled her eyes indulgently and tossed me a second pack. "There's a walkie-talkie in there too, in case we get separated."

"Seems like you've thought of everything."

"Somebody has to."

"Should we be bringing dogs into a national forest like this?"

"They're fine, so long as we keep an eye on them." Tamara closed her eyes and took a deep breath. "Ah. It's been so long since I've gone hiking."

We started walking.

"You used to hike a lot as a kid?" I guessed, as Tamara nimbly moved over heavy tree roots and rocks. Not that it was that hard to keep up. In the old days, I'd walked through the forest pretty often to go see Ax or Tobias… I pushed the memories away.

"Actually I only took it up a couple of years ago," Tamara said. "I fell in love with it instantly. There's something about properly seeing nature, about really being a part of your environment, that you just can't get surrounded by buildings or inside a vehicle." She brushed her fingertips along the bark of a tree, and smiled.

We kept a good pace, pausing occasionally to check our location in the forest; the dogs stayed in our approximate area, but bounded around after each other with seemingly endless energy. We stopped at a small lake for lunch. Tamara had brought a picnic blanket for us to sit on while we ate sandwiches. The dogs, being dogs, plowed straight into the water.

"They are gonna shake that all over us," I noted.

Tamara laughed. "You've owned dogs before, I'm guessing."

"Hasn't everybody?"

"Actually, Mite is my first. I used to live with somebody who was allergic to them, so…" she trailed off, and busied herself choosing a sandwich.

"Well, that explains why you chose such a stupid dog name."

Tamara just shrugged silently and settled on ham and cheese.

"You don't talk about the past much," I said casually, as if I wasn't being a massive hypocrite.

"The past has already happened. The future is much more exciting. We don't know what's there yet." She took a bite of sandwich and regarded me with smiling eyes.

I wasn't buying it. "You didn't have such a great past." I took a shot in the dark. "You were a Controller, weren't you?"

Tamara looked away, swallowing. "Not for very long," she said quietly.

I remembered the three days I was tied up in the woods, terrified I'd get loose and betray all my friends, and slipped my hand around hers. "Even a little while is enough to hurt," I said quietly.

"There were others who – "

"Other people hurting more doesn't make your pain any less legitimate."

She met my eyes again. I tried to smile understandingly. "You too, huh?" she asked.

"Not for very long," I echoed.

Tamara nodded, and stared back over the lake. We both watched the dogs play for a few minutes. Suddenly, she announced, "The nightmares were the worst part."

"Hmm?"

"Throughout the day wasn't so bad, because you could be doing something, thinking something. You could distract yourself if it got too bad. But there was no control over the nightmares. None. And after the war, I thought I was free of them. I didn't realise that they'd come back."

I realised that at some point while she was talking, I'd moved in and put my arm around her shoulders. "Nightmares hurt," I said, "but they can't hurt us."

"They don't stop. I don't know how to handle them."

"It's okay. You learn."

Tamara nodded through her tears and glanced at me. Then she became very still. "Don't move," she said in a low, clear voice.

Instantly, I froze. 'Don't move' could mean a few things. It could mean that we were being captured and a nervous enemy had a hair trigger, ready to shoot at the slightest threat. It could mean a natural danger, anything from a skunk to a rattlesnake. But I couldn't deal with it until I knew what and where it was. Until then, I needed to be very, very still. Without moving my head, I glanced about, looking for a hostile presence; Tamara had been looking behind me when she'd spoken, but there might be more than one of them.

Very slowly, Tamara reached both hands behind my head, and then withdrew them, one shielding the other. Hands between our faces, she dropped the shield. A butterfly with rusty red wings streaked with a few black-and-white lines fluttered briefly on her finger, then flew away.

"It was caught in your collar," she said, smiling. "I was afraid you might crush it."

I relaxed. "A butterfly?"

"Ceanothus silkmoth, actually," she said, reaching for her sandwich again.

"You are just full of surprise knowledge, you know that?"

"Only about moths and butterflies. And their caterpillars, of course. It's a hobby."

"You're a collector?"

"Oh, no! I just find them interesting. I wouldn't kill them just for something pretty to look at. Even something like an insect… it's a shame to kill for no reason, wouldn't you agree?"

I forced back memories of the time that Cassie was caught in butterfly morph. "Yes. Yes it is."

At that moment, Scrap bounded up and, predictably, shook filthy water all over us and our sandwiches.

We went hiking a few times to exercise the dogs together. I began to really look forward to being John. More than that, I started doing other things with our free time. Neither Tamara nor I wanted to talk about the past very much, so we needed something else to talk about. I started taking movie and book recommendations from her. My evenings at home alone still involved brooding over lesson plans and space patrol patterns, but at least they no longer took place in silence. Instead, the sounds of a new band or funny movie kept me company. I asked Mom to teach me how to make pasties, and surprised Tamara with them one hiking trip. When I asked her to show me how to make souffle, she became suspicious and started teasing me about who I must be sharing the food with, but I brushed off her questions. I didn't want her knowing about John.

It was inevitable, I guess, that eventually, Tamara and I would meet up and it would have nothing to do with dogs.

I couldn't invite her to my place. 'John' didn't have a place. Besides, I felt somewhat… guilty about the whole thing. It's not like I'd technically lied to her, except for the little matter of using a fake name, but I hadn't really been honest with her about who I was either. Still, when Tamara invited me around for dinner, how could I refuse?

She had a tiny house near the edge of town, just the right size for a single occupant plus dog. It looked like the sort of place old ladies always end up living in; very small, well-tended garden, heavy floral curtains. Souffle in hand, I rang the doorbell, and was immediately answered by Mite's high-pitched barking.

"Coming!" Tamara's voice rang out. Less than a minute later, the door was opened.

I'd only ever seen Tamara when she was dressed for dog-waling or hiking. The Tamara I knew was a young woman encased in sweatpants and a baggy jacket with old, double-knotted trainers that had seen far too much mud. The woman that stood before me was rather taller than my Tamara, propped up as she was on delicate black heels. Her powder-blue dress hugged curves usually hidden under a jacket, and left her shoulders bare; I hadn't even known about the butterfly tattoo on her right collarbone before. Her seemingly untameable brown curls had been tamed and neatly pinned back with a jewelled beret.

Then her laughing hazel eyes met mine, and I recognised her again.

"Hey, John."

"Hi, Tamara."

"Come in. The roast will be ready in half an hour. Is that souffle chocolate?"

"Would I bring anything less?" I followed her inside, put down my souffle in the kitchen, and perched somewhat awkwardly on the couch.

I don't even remember what movie we watched. I know that partway through it, Tamara got up to serve the most delicious roast beef I'd ever eaten. I know that my souffle had slightly too much salt. I know that empty dishes piled up in front of us and Tamara rested her head on my shoulder, fingers entwined with mine, and stayed that way until the end credits rolled.

Not, not my shoulder… John's shoulder. John's fingers.

Tamara lifted her head to kiss me. I stopped her. She frowned. "John…?"

"No," I said.

"I'm sorry, I… I thought…"

"Not that! I… I really like you, Tamara. But this isn't fair to you. There's… I need to tell you something."

She was still frowning, but she looked more puzzled than upset. "What?"

I took a deep breath. "I… I lied to you. My name's not John. It's a fake name. I just… I wanted to be somebody else, I wanted to…"

"I know."

I stared at her. "You… what?"

Tamara rolled her eyes. "Do you think you're the only one who wanted a fresh start? After the war, after… everything… a lot of people left their old selves behind. My name's not Tamara, either. Well, it is now, but only because I had it changed." She put a hand on my shoulder. "I knew. I didn't care. And if you want to keep being 'John', I get it."

"You…"

Knew.

She knew.

"Do you know who I am?"

"I don't know who you were, no. But you are John. That's the choice we made."

I grabbed her then; I pulled her onto my lap and we kissed, mouths grasping at each other and arms wrapped around shoulders as if neither of us ever wanted to let go.

"Well, ma'am," I said when we finally parted, "that was improperly familiar for a pair of strangers."

She giggled. "You make a fair point, good sir. I supposed it is only proper that we be introduced." She fluttered her eyelashes in an exaggerated manner. "My name is Lady Lakhet 473 of the Keld Enir pool. And you, good sir?"

I froze. Something like ice water seemed to trickle down my spine, flowing into my limbs and leaving them stiff, unresponsive. Tamara… Lakhet… went back to frowning. She didn't seem to notice my grip tightening on her arms.

"John? Are you ok?"

"You're. A. Controller."

"What? No! Of course I'm not a Controller! I trapped myself in morph, like any reasonable person! Oh, dapsen… you're not a Controller, are you?! You have to let him go!"

"No. No, I'm not a Controller."

"Oh. Oh, good." She relaxed. I didn't. "John, you're hurting me."

"My name isn't John."

"We've already established that." There was more than a hint of irritation in her voice as she struggled in my grip. "But you're still hurting me. What was your name, anyway? Let me guess, some hotshot sub-Visser who still thinks it's okay to manhandle people?"

"My name is Jake. Jake Berenson."

I have never seen anybody go so white so fast.

Within moments, Lakhet was out of my grip, back against the wall. She held a steak knife, shreds of roast beef still clinging to it, in one trembling hand. "You should leave. Before one of us does something we'll regret."

"Yeah. I should." I stood up, causing Lakhet to flinch, and headed toward the door.

"John…"

I paused in the doorway. "John never existed. Neither did Tamara."

"I know." Lakhet was slumped against the wall, steak knife dangling limply from her fingers, the heel of her free hand pressed against her forehead. "This planet is filled to capacity with human beings. And out of all of them, out of those billions of people, you just had to turn out to be the guy who murdered every single one of my friends."

I stepped back towards her. "Hey, I'm not the one who – "

Mite's barking interrupted me. As soon as I'd advanced, the steak knife was back up, and the little dog was between her owner's legs, yapping in the most threatening manner that she could.

"Don't tell me the dog is a Yeerk, too."

"No, she's just a dog. But if you hurt her…" Lakhet waved the knife threateningly. Or tried to. We both knew that that little thing wasn't actually any sort of threat to me. Superior muscle power aside, I could always just heal with morphing.

For several seconds, I stared at the murderous alien who was infiltrating my own culture while hiding behind a human face… yet staring at me as if I was the one about to flip out and attack people. I briefly raised both open palms in a gesture that was more dismissive than pacifying. "I'm going."

Neither of us said goodbye as I slammed the door behind me.

You can't run from the past. And you can't hide from it, either.

Not forever.


End file.
